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  “Those girls. They were a two-person circus when they were together.”

  I catch Benson squinting out of the corner of my eye. I suspect he never looked through the album.

  “They weren’t . . . um?”

  “If they played around, it wouldn’t have surprised me. But no, they weren’t, as far as I know. Like I said, Caitlin loved Dylan, but she caused him grief. She was a bit of a flirt.”

  Ah, got it. She was less than faithful to her high school sweetheart. No shocker there.

  “Mind if I take some photos of the album?” I ask.

  “Please. And you can take any duplicate photos if you want,” she replies.

  “Did she take any other Polaroids? Maybe some less risqué ones?”

  “She didn’t have a Polaroid. That probably belonged to Grace.”

  “Or one of the boys,” adds Benson with a slight sneer.

  I start taking photographs out of the album. “Did she have a diary?”

  “You know, she did. But I couldn’t find it when she went missing. I assumed she took it with her.”

  “We didn’t find anything in the van.” Huh, diary goes missing after she does. I glance over at Benson. “That’s too bad. I’d love to know what was in there.”

  His eyes dart away from mine.

  He’s definitely got a secret. But is it the obvious one or something else?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  GRACE

  Randy Fulton, a classmate of the lost kids, is giving a touching speech at the lectern of Davie Methodist Church. He’s got a beard, slicked-back gray hair, and the penetrating gaze of someone who writes about people—which he does, as a blogger for a political news site in DC.

  “I didn’t know Grace, Caitlin, Tim, and Dylan as well as I would have liked. They were their own crowd, which made them special. I can remember coming to school and seeing them across the street, smoking cigarettes and having a laugh.” He glances toward the parents’ section. “They looked a little rowdy to a nerd like me, but that was their way. I remember being jealous of them. Wishing I had friends like that. To this day, I don’t think I’ve experienced that kind of camaraderie.” He looks up from his notes. “You have to understand that when they went missing, nobody really thought they were missing. We just kind of assumed they decided to gas up Dylan’s van and see how far it would take them. I remember thinking they were the same kind of free spirits that made the sixties happen. And truth be told, that was my personal wish—that they’d hopped aboard, leaving their troubles behind, and decided to go west, where the good music was happening. And I also remember wishing back then, as a shy senior who hadn’t managed to make a real friend in four years, that I had gone off in that van with them. Laughing, listening to music with people who loved me. Truth be told, to this day, I still wish I could have been part of their group. That’s what friendship was. That’s what it’s like to feel loved.”

  Fulton’s speech generates a generous amount of applause and teary eyes from the parents. As a political writer, he’s got his measure of bullshit and narcissism mixed just right. I know more about him now than I do the kids from his fairy-tale story of them singing along with the Mamas and the Papas as they headed west to resurrect the Summer of Love.

  But in actuality, the foursome was more into Sisters of Mercy and Joy Division. Dylan’s body bore several self-made tattoos of bands that embraced nihilism like a self-help philosophy. That said, Fulton’s speech has done exactly what it was meant to do: made everyone feel better about a horribly tragic event.

  After the speakers finish, none of them having had more than a passing relationship with the kids, I’m able to pull the other parents aside into a small meeting room.

  I’d contacted them beforehand, telling them that I had some wrap-up questions for my report and the best time to talk to all of them would be here. They were happy to agree, and two of them told me that they had been wanting to meet me anyway, to thank me personally.

  Tim Kelly’s parents, Joyce and Peter, are much older than the others. Tim was adopted when he was seven. Which may explain why, with parents who were affluent and upper-class, Tim had trouble adjusting.

  Grace Sandalin’s parents, Nancy and Donald, appear blue collar. Her father, despite being retirement age, is wearing an ill-fitting collared shirt, and her mother has on the kind of orthopedic shoes I’ve seen on older waitresses.

  Dylan’s father, Grant, wears a nondescript suit over a muscular frame. The report said that he owned an auto-body shop that had had trouble in the past with stolen parts. Dylan’s mother died the year before he went missing.

  “Thank you for talking to me. This has to be very difficult,” I say to start things.

  “Thank you for finding our angels,” says Nancy Sandalin, still wiping away tears.

  “You’re the one who dived in and found the van?” asks Grant.

  “Yes. I was assisting with another case when I discovered it.”

  “Hmm. And what kind of condition would you say it was in?” he asks.

  This gets a look from Peter Kelly. “That’s your first question? Are you planning on reselling it?”

  Grant faces him and growls, “Actually, I’m having trouble understanding how my son ended up in the middle of a lake, asshole.”

  Oh shit. “Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “We’re in a church. Let’s all act . . . um, churchlike.”

  Good lord, I had no idea what kind of tension existed between these people. Here I was thinking it would all be tears and group hugging.

  “First, to answer your question, Mr. Udal, the van was in working condition minus the water exposure and didn’t appear to have suffered any malfunction that could have caused the accident.”

  “So you were saying he was fucked-up when he went in?” He shakes his head. “Dylan messed around with shit. I know that. But he knew I’d beat the shit out of him if he ever did it behind the wheel. That was the rule.”

  “That was the rule?” says Peter Kelly. “No wonder our kids ended up at the bottom of the lake. With your son driving.”

  “You wanna talk about this outside?” says Grant, getting up.

  “Please sit down. Do I have to remind everyone that I’m a cop?” I turn to Peter Kelly. “To be honest, we don’t know what happened. It could have been road conditions. He could have been swerving to avoid another car. And to Mr. Udal’s point, despite Dylan’s less-than-spotless criminal record, he was never accused of being under the influence while driving.” And just to shut him up: “Something I can’t say for everyone else here. These were kids. Kids have accidents. They sometimes exercise poor judgment. Now, I’d like to get to the matter at hand, and hopefully you can answer some questions for me.”

  “Like what?” asks Nancy Sandalin.

  I make a dramatic point of holding up a folder from the original investigation in 1989. “First, can someone tell me why they did such a shitty job with this case? It reads to me like the cops decided that the kids had run away before they even looked into it.”

  “Because they’d done it in the past,” says Peter Kelly. “A few months before, they went to Disney World without telling anyone.”

  “And then they came back?”

  “Two days later. We called the cops when it happened. False alarm.”

  “I see. So when they didn’t come home on February 18, the police assumed they’d gone off to Disney again?”

  Joyce Kelly speaks up. “It’s what we wanted to believe. We didn’t even call the police until Sunday afternoon, and they told us to wait. So we did. Finally, on that Monday they started looking.”

  I pull out a map of the search area and hold it up. “They told you where they looked?”

  “Yes,” says Joyce. “They said they searched the canals too.”

  No doubt a visual inspection only. “So, after the search turned up nothing, what did they tell you?”

  “They told us the kids had probably run away. They contacted Orlando police and sent out a bulletin a
bout the van.”

  “Did the police tell you how they expected four teenagers to pay for gas and food?”

  Peter Kelly points a finger at Grant. “Any theories on how your son could make money on the streets? Any at all?”

  I raise my hands to stop him. It’s not like his kid was an angel either. “Okay. I get it. According to the files, your son had a possession charge.”

  “One,” says Joyce.

  “One that you weren’t able to get expunged from his record,” I reply. Something tells me the Kellys used their money to try to keep their son’s record clean.

  I turn to Grant. “What did you think happened to the kids?”

  He shrugs. “At first? Like they said.”

  “And after no contact?” I ask.

  “Maybe he ended up in a ditch. I lost a brother that way.” He gulps, then goes silent. What he doesn’t want to say is that he also lost one of Dylan’s brothers to a heroin overdose three years prior.

  I look to the Kellys. “And you? What did you think after Tim didn’t come home?”

  Joyce sighs and looks at her hands.

  Peter closes his eyes for a moment. “I can tell you that we felt relief.”

  “Peter!” his wife admonishes him.

  “Our son was trouble from day one. We gave him everything, and he still treated us like strangers. Honestly speaking, we figured he was just another runaway. His mother was. God knows who his father was. Maybe it was genetic.”

  “But he didn’t run away this time, did he?” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe I can’t handle Kelly’s bashing of some poor kid who went from a broken home to a sterile one. “How about you, Mrs. Sandalin? What did you think?”

  “I didn’t think she ran away. Grace and I got along. Sure, it was rough sometimes making ends meet, and she was upset that we couldn’t get her new clothes all the time and stuff like that. But we didn’t really fight. I let her do her own thing. When she started seeing Tim, I didn’t complain.” She looks over at the Kellys. “We liked your boy. He was always sweet to me.”

  “He was a manipulator,” replies Peter.

  “He was an orphan who learned not to trust adults,” I reply, defending a kid I never met. “They do what they can to survive.”

  “Survive? We had three cars and a maid.”

  “Emotionally,” I reply. “Anyway. I wasn’t there. I’m not here to pass judgment.” Not openly, at least. I glance down at my notes. “Just a few more quick questions. Did any of the kids snorkel or scuba dive?”

  I get headshakes all around. I cross that off the list. I don’t want to be too obvious, so I have to pad the questions with things I already know.

  “Did the kids tell you what concert they were going to?” Some did. Some didn’t.

  “Did they mention going with anyone else? Possibly meeting up with other friends?” Negative.

  “Had any of the kids ever reported being the victims of any kind of violence?” I ask.

  “Like spanking?” asks Nancy Sandalin.

  “No. I mean by somebody else. A boyfriend who was violent?”

  “Why are you asking that?” says Peter Kelly.

  “Just part of the background.” I look to Nancy. “Anything?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “No sexual mistreatment?” I ask.

  “Does a pervert gym teacher the boys had count?” asks Grant. “Did they say anything about him?”

  “Is he still breathing? Then the answer is no,” I reply.

  “Noted.”

  “Seriously, what are you getting at?” asks Peter Kelly.

  “I’m just trying to get an accurate understanding of their lives. Okay. One more.” Be subtle. “I’d love to have any photos of the kids, if possible.” I turn to Nancy Sandalin. “Any Polaroids Grace may have taken?”

  She gives me a dumb look.

  “Did she have an instant camera?”

  She glances at her husband. He shakes his head.

  “Do any of you know if your child had a Polaroid camera?” Negative. Everyone seems certain.

  This has gotten interesting. I have one highly suggestive photo of Grace in Caitlin’s album, and nobody in the tight-knit group owned a Polaroid camera—or at least not as far as the parents know.

  I’d dismiss it as an unimportant detail if it weren’t for the fact that one of the items we found in the van was an empty Polaroid film cartridge.

  Just how tight-knit was their group, really? “Ms. McPherson?” says Joyce Kelly.

  Her husband shakes his head. “Drop it, Joyce.”

  “What is it?”

  She ignores him. “I was wondering. It’s a silly thing, but I’d like to get all Tim’s stuff back.”

  “Most of it’s pretty decayed,” I reply.

  “I know. They gave us what’s left of his jacket. It’s just that we’d like to have a private ceremony. And I’d like to get the other shoe.” She turns to Grant Udal. “I’m happy to give you Dylan’s other shoe, since they mistakenly gave it to us.”

  He gives her a confused shrug. “What other shoe? They sent me the rags of Dylan’s Nikes. What are you talking about?”

  “Tim was a size ten. They sent us two shoes. One was his Reebok, the other was a size-twelve Adidas. He didn’t wear Adidas.”

  I flip through the inventory list in my notes. There it is, plain as day. Aguilló reported the belongings of each kid. Tim’s corpse was missing a shoe, but they found one in the van. The problem is, the shoe was the wrong size. And brand, it turns out.

  “What size did Dylan wear?” I ask Grant.

  “Not twelves, I know that.”

  Kids keep all kinds of odd stuff in their vehicles . . . but the odd stuff here keeps adding up.

  It leads me to one obvious conclusion, which George is going to hate.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ADIDAS

  George Solar’s frustration fills the warehouse of our run-down headquarters as he glares at the documents I’ve placed in front of him. Hughes is sitting next to me at the table and is giving me his best blank stare while paying close attention. I roped him into this with an email explaining my findings, saying that I only wanted to “loop him in.” I knew it would capture his curiosity while not exactly violating George’s request that I not pull him into the case. Hughes responded with two words: “I’m in.”

  Our HQ was formerly a marina warehouse that was seized during our last case and turned over to us for the use of the UIU. While the main building has shoddy air-conditioning and is better suited to fiberglassing boats than doing office work, it has a convenient dock and suits our purposes fine. There’s even a large aboveground pool that I can test dive gear in. I just have to forget the fact that someone I knew was murdered in it.

  George holds up a photo of the worn Adidas sneaker. “A shoe? A shoe, McPherson? This is your best evidence?”

  “No. It’s one of several pieces. First, we have the girls showing signs of possible sexual assault. We have the empty Polaroid film casing. We have a Polaroid photo of one of the girls that nobody knows the origin of, and none of the kids even owned a Polaroid camera. There’s the dive-mask ring, and we also have a size-twelve shoe that appeared out of nowhere. It’s a lot of evidence that doesn’t add up.”

  George isn’t having any of it. “We once arrested a drug dealer in Homestead. Jamaican guy. When we searched his house, know what I found in the closet? A horse saddle. Not some sex thing, but a full-on horse saddle. He didn’t ride. He’d never been near a horse, as far as I knew. When I asked him about it, he refused to talk about it. To this day, McPherson, I still think about that horse saddle. Why . . . ? But it doesn’t change a thing. Some people have weird stuff. Comb a crime scene thoroughly enough, you’ll find something odd. It doesn’t change what happened. It simply reveals the truth that we’re all weird. We’re all messy in our own way.”

  I can tell George is trying to convince himself as much as me that the odd pieces don’t mean anything.

>   “Or . . . ,” I reply.

  He shakes his head. “Let’s hear it.”

  He’s painted me into a corner. He wants me to say it out loud so I can hear how ridiculous it sounds.

  Fine. “There was a fifth kid. Possibly a fifth victim. Someone who got flung from the van before it rolled.”

  George’s eyes narrow. “That’s your claim?”

  “My theory,” I reply.

  “I thought you were going in another direction.”

  I am. But not openly. “A fifth person makes sense.”

  “He’s the one who messed with the girls?” asks George.

  “Possibly. Maybe there was a fight. That could be why they went off the road. He was knocked unconscious and thrown from the van and drowned outside the van. Maybe he was a new member to the group. But a fifth person makes sense. And there’s one other thing.” I’ve been saving this for last. “Hughes caught this back when Aguilló made his little presentation, but he was afraid to say anything. Right?”

  “What?” blurts Hughes, unprepared for me calling him out.

  “The X-rays. You noticed something? Didn’t you?”

  Hughes seems profoundly uneasy. The problem is, he’s not accustomed to bucking authority. George laid down the law, and Hughes doesn’t want to contradict him.

  “Let’s hear it,” says George, sensing the man’s discomfort.

  “I’m not an expert. I spent time working at some naval hospitals and handling combat trauma, so all I know is what I’ve seen. It’s the Udal boy’s X-rays. He had a broken neck but no sign of facial trauma. I’ve never seen that in a car accident where the driver died. I thought it was surprising that Aguilló concluded he was driving, but I deferred to his expertise.”